30. Jessica
August, Present Day
Maple Ridge
I return to the office.No one seems to be following me, but I can’t shake the feeling I’m being stalked.
It’s just your imagination.
Or possibly the complex PTSD working overtime—combined with the reporters and protesters constantly tormenting me when I’m at home.
I push the thought aside and focus on my work. Excitement wraps around me like a soft blanket on a rainy day. Not excitement at the task at hand, but at how in a few hours I’ll be spending time with Troy and Nova.
Playing with them. Getting to know the little girl who’s an important part of Troy’s life.
Getting to know the little girl who reminds me so much of Amelia at that age.
I know she isn’t my daughter, but spending time with Nova feels a tiny bit like I’m getting back some of the time I lost with my little girl.
And after what happened earlier at Little Wonders, hanging out with an adorable two-year-old will make my day better. Brighter.
I just hope the media or judgment surrounding me don’t follow me to the beach and keep me from spending the afternoon with Troy and Nova. I’ll leave if it comes to that—but I really hope it doesn’t.
Troy walks into the office a few minutes early for our late afternoon excursion with Nova. The curve of his smile is not quite fully formed, his eyes missing their usual sparkle. Even his shoulders don’t seem to have the strength to be strong and proud. They’re slumped, deflated, caved in.
It’s a good thing I’m joining him and Nova. I’m not sure he’ll survive an energetic toddler without me. He has put too many demands on himself, and it’s still another six weeks until the festival is off his to-do list. Six weeks until he has one less thing weighing him down.
I walk to him and loop my arms around his shoulders. “Hi.” I smile at him, and my mouth finds his, taking whatever he’ll give me. Giving him so much in return. My tongue strokes his, and I greedily consume him.
He slips his arms around my waist. The tension in his muscles loosens, but it doesn’t fully disappear. With everything he’s got on his plate, it doesn’t surprise me.
I pull away ever so slightly, our bodies still pressed together. “You ready to pick up Nova now?”
Troy’s eyes cloud for a fraction of a second with an emotion I can’t read. It sends my heart stumbling.
“What’s wrong?” I ask.
He closes his eyes, and his body goes tense again. He releases a hard breath.
Oh, this can’t be good.
“Olivia came to the worksite earlier. She…” He opens his eyes, and I can see in them what he’s trying to say, but he doesn’t have the heart to eviscerate me with the words. He knows I was excited to spend the afternoon with him and Nova.
I step away, and Troy’s arms fall to his side. “She doesn’t want me to hang out with you and her daughter,” I fill in for him, my voice a rough whisper. Because of the protesters and because of my past and because she might be in love with you.
I attempt to fix my lips into an understanding smile. It’s wobbly at best. “That’s okay. I’m not family. You, Olivia, and Nova are family. And given everything…” The rest of my words stick in my throat, their taste bitter and rusty and foul.
Even if the world wasn’t imploding around me, thanks to her sister’s article, Olivia wouldn’t want me to spend time with Nova and Troy. She has feelings for him that go beyond friendship. Troy has become Colton’s replacement in so many ways, and that includes being Nova’s father.
“I’ve got lots to do this evening,” I tell him. “This way I can get an early start on it all.” The novel about Angelique won’t write itself.
Troy studies my face, and I do what I can to make my smile look genuine. “Are you sure?” he asks, my smile apparently not convincing enough.
I nod. “Absolutely. The time you spend with Nova is important. It will ensure she grows up strong and brave—like her father would want her to be.” Like I’m trying to be. Like Angelique was.
My words to Troy sound pretty convincing even to my ears. They don’t come off as if I’m heartbroken by the turn of events. I hope. It’s not Troy’s fault Olivia doesn’t want me spending time with him and her daughter. It’s not Olivia’s fault either.
“She might be only two now, but the years will go by quickly,” I remind him. “Enjoy the time with her while you can. Once she’s a teen, she probably won’t want to spend so much time with her…her godfather.”
Troy grabs my hips and pulls me to him. “I hate leaving you alone with everything going on.”
“It’s probably better I’m not with you two. I don’t want to risk the protesters catching wind of where I am and scaring Nova.”
“I hate that it’s come to this.” He blows a ragged breath, the exhaustion on his face deepening the lines around his eyes and mouth. “I shouldn’t have to choose between you two. I should be able to hang out with both of you at the same time.”
Olivia is making him choose between Nova and me?
Of course she is. She loves Troy. I’m just the woman who’s standing in her way of getting what she’s dreaming of—Troy as her husband and Nova’s father.
Can’t say I blame her. What woman wouldn’t want Troy as her husband and the father of her children?
Other than me. But I’m not a good example. I’m bruised. Dented. Broken. I had my chance at a happily ever after and it ended up being anything but that. I lost everything important to me. I don’t have it in me to go through that again. I don’t have it in me to risk losing another child.
“Have fun with Nova, and I’ll be waiting for you once you’ve finished making her day.” I kiss him lightly on the lips. “Okay?”
“Alright. That doesn’t mean I like this. Once things die down with the protesters and reporters, I’ll talk to Olivia and get her to change her mind.”
I nod, unable to voice the truth—that her mind will never change.
* * *
The protestersand reporters are blocking my driveway when Troy pulls up to it. He honks and advances forward. Some of the protesters scatter to the side. The rest of them hold up their signs and continue chanting. “Protect our children! Convicts not welcome!”
Troy advances another few inches. “Christ, what’s their fucking problem?”
“They’re hoping I’ll just give up and move away.”
“They can hope all they want. That’s not gonna happen. Not unless you’re planning to move in with me.” There’s a smile in his tone that isn’t mirrored in his expression. He scowls at the people outside the truck.
The volume of the chanting increases, but most of the protesters do step aside, allowing Troy to get through.
He pulls up the driveway and parks closer to the rear of my house. Troy, Bailey, and I get out of the truck. Troy opens the back door for Butterscotch to jump down.
Reporters shout questions at me. I can barely make out what they’re asking. The clash of questions yelled at the same time and the chanting creates one big noise, making it easier for me to ignore them.
We hurry past the wooden gate. The chanting pursues us into the garden, the distance and hedge barely dulling the volume.
“I need some sort of magical dome over my garden, then I can enjoy sitting outside without having to hear the protesters.” I unlock the door and open it.
The dogs rush past us and go into the house. I follow them, toe off my sandals by the door, and enter the code for the security system.
“I’ll be back in a few hours.” Troy lifts his phone, finger poised above the screen. “I’ll call one of my brothers to come over and keep an eye on things while I’m gone.”
“Don’t worry about it. I’ll be fine. Will the protesters be annoying? Absolutely. But I bet I’m not the only one who’s fed up with them. If they irritate my neighbors, someone’s bound to complain to the police.” Please, someone, file a complaint. As long as they’re not the ones doing the protesting, of course.
“And you think that will make a difference?” Troy’s tone says he believes the opposite.
“They’re the definition of disturbing the peace.” That’s got to count for something. The cops might not do anything to help me, but they can’t ignore my neighbors’ complaints. I’m the one who’s been branded a cop killer and a dangerous offender—not the other residents on my street.
“I’m gonna call Kellan.”
I touch Troy’s arm, his well-developed biceps firm beneath my fingertips. “No, you’re not. He’s probably busy with work. And I’m going to use the time while you’re gone to figure out the historical novel I plan to write.”
“You can still do that with him here.” Troy folds his arms, and I let my hand drop to my side, barely refraining from rolling my eyes at his protectiveness. It can be sweet at times. Other times it’s damn frustrating. He’s not trying to control me. That I do know. It’s just part of who he is. He protects those he loves. He protects those who need protecting.
“No, I can’t. He’ll be too much of a distraction.” I lightly press my lips to Troy’s mouth, the touch brief. “You should go now. Nova’s waiting.” I don’t need to give Olivia another reason not to like me or to make things difficult for Troy.
“Okay. I’ll be back in a few hours. Text me if you need anything.”
“I will.” The lie slips awkwardly from between my lips, but I don’t think Troy notices. I have no intention of taking him away from his time with Nova. The little girl is missing out on having a father due to the cruelty of PTSD. I won’t be responsible for taking away the main father figure who’s now in her life.
I put my palm on Troy’s chest and give him a nudge outside. “Go. Nova’s waiting for you.”
He and Butterscotch leave, and I go upstairs to my bedroom. Bailey walks alongside me. I retrieve Angelique’s journal from the bottom dresser drawer and return downstairs.
The living room is dark, the curtains closed. I spent five years existing without much privacy. I’m not giving up what little I have now by letting the protesters and reporters see into my living room.
I get comfy on the couch and disappear into Angelique’s world. The chanting outside the window becomes a ghost of a noise as I focus on her words. Words I attempt to decipher. Words that have become the casualty of shaky handwriting and faded ink.
But now I know why her handwriting is so difficult to read, why she struggled with arthritis and the use of her right hand. An SOE agent who was supposed to be on her side, who was supposed to help France and Britain win the war, became a double agent.
And for what reason? Greed? The lust for power? A disregard for human life? These could be the same reasons Violet’s husband joined forces with the criminal organization involved in trafficking assault weapons.
If my late husband were alive, would he have fallen down the same destructive path? He and Chief Wilson had a lot in common. They were abusive, manipulative, and controlling. Maybe those same traits are required for being a bad cop. If I can profile these sorts of people, it might help me write strong villains in Iris’s story.
I glance at the pile of writing craft books on the coffee table. On the other hand, I should probably try penning the first chapter to see how it goes. It might turn out that I hate writing fiction or I’m awful at it.
I put the journal aside, close my eyes for a moment to visualize the scene, and begin typing.
I’ve been working away at the first chapter for an hour when my phone rings on the table. I lean over and pick it up. Craig? My heart thuds to a standstill and my mouth turns drought dry.
“Hi, Craig.” The greeting comes out crackly and squeaked. I clear my throat. “How are you doing?” I try to infuse an upbeat, happy tone to my words, as if there isn’t a large group of protesters outside the window, chanting, “Protect our children. Convicts not welcome.”
“I’m good, Savannah.” Craig sounds anything but good. He sounds like a doctor who’s about to tell a patient they’ve only got a few hours left to live. My heart sinks. Even a defibrillator won’t get it beating again.
“Jessica,” I correct and curve my mouth into a smile, hoping it’s enough to hide my frustration from him. “I don’t go by my old name anymore. New start and all.”
“Right. Jessica. Grace told me you called the other day about seeing Lia.”
I bite my lip to keep from blurting that my daughter’s name is Amelia. “That’s right. She’s yours and Grace’s daughter…” Just saying the words out loud feels like razor blades slicing my throat from the inside. Each word stings my heart and my soul. I put my hand over my heart, as if that’s all it takes to keep me in one piece. “But…but I would love to see her again. To be part of her life—even if it won’t be in the same way it was before. I have a steady job. And my house has a room that’s perfect for children.” Don’t cry. Whatever you do, don’t cry. Don’t give him any reason to doubt I have it all together.
I keep repeating the words in my head, waiting for him to say the ones I’ve been dying to hear since I was released from prison.
“I know you miss her.” Craig’s tone softens. “You love her, and you were a good mother to her. That much was clear to Grace and me. While you were her mom, you raised her to be a wonderful little girl.”
There’s no missing the huge “but” looming over the words. I bite my lower lip. Hard.
Don’t say it. Don’t say it. Please don’t say it, I silently plead to him. Please don’t say the words that will forever break my heart.
“But I don’t think you being in her life will be possible,” he continues, barely skipping a beat. “I know you’ve been trying to start your life over again, Sav—Jessica, but…but you were Wayne’s wife. Wayne. Lincoln. Both of my brothers are part of my past. The reasons I’m estranged from my family. I can’t…I can’t deal with that part of my life again.”
“But Amelia is part of my late husband”—I still can’t say his name out loud—“and you had no issues with accepting her into your life despite that.” Desperation leaks into my voice, roughing up the calm I’m trying to infuse into it.
“Because she was an innocent child. An innocent child who needed a home and loving parents. I look at her and I don’t see my brothers or the bullying I dealt with growing up in that house. I just see a sweet and generous little girl. She’s my light. But you…you’re a reminder of the darkest time of my life. I’m sorry, Jessica, but my decision is final.” He does sound sorry, but that doesn’t make me feel better. His words slice deep into my soul, spill the hope I’d been harboring since I was released from prison. It drips to the floor, spreads into a puddle, evaporates.
And I’m left shredded and spent.
I’m hollow.
I swipe at the tears soaking my cheeks. “I understand,” I say, attempting a smile. I don’t want him to know how much his words are destroying me. It won’t sway Grace’s and his decision. “But maybe if you give it a little time. Give me a chance. You won’t feel that way. Once you get to know?—”
“I don’t know, Jessica. I don’t see that happening. It’s just too much.” There’s a finality to his words, a door slamming shut in my face.
A hiccupped sob escapes me, and the hand holding the phone shakes. “Okay.” Disappointment and pain leak into the word, cracking my insides to pieces. “I’ll let you go now. Thank you…thank you for calling me.”
I end the call and put the phone on the coffee table next to my World War II research books.
My hand hovers over the phone, then with a strangled cry, I sweep my hand across the surface of the table, knocking everything off. The journal. The books. My phone. Only my laptop is spared from the grief gutting me.
I want to punch something, to scream, to cry. But I don’t want to risk anyone outside hearing me and having that reported on the evening news. It will only feed into their lies, as well as their fear and distrust of me.
I pick up Angelique’s journal, clutch it to my chest, and walk upstairs on trembling legs.
I open the door to the room that was to be Amelia’s. I don’t even register the work Troy and his brothers have done on it and head for the closet. I pull open the door to the secret room and crawl inside. The blankets and pillows I’d given Violet and Sophie are still here, forming a makeshift bed.
I curl into a fetal position on the blankets and scream and scream and scream into a pillow. I scream until my lungs are burning. Scream until I have nothing left in me to give.
A whimper comes from the doorway, and a warm hairy body lies next to me. Bailey whimpers again.
“Everything I’ve done has been for nothing,” I say through the flood of tears. My voice is hoarse like it was after Dunbar strangled me and my throat is equally sore. “I’ve lost my daughter forever.”
Another sob wracks my body, and I let myself get pulled under, the overwhelming grief making it difficult to catch my breath.